“You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately?” said Mr Dombey.
“Several times.”
“The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid.”
“Oh no; not at all.”
“Ah! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest Edith,” said Mrs Skewton. “He has been to Warwick Castle fifty times, if he has been there once; yet if he came to Leamington to-morrow—I wish he would, dear angel!—he would make his fifty-second visit next day.”
“We are all enthusiastic, are we not, Mama?” said Edith, with a cold smile.
“Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear,” returned her mother; “but we won’t complain. Our own emotions are our recompense. If, as your cousin Feenix says, the sword wears out the what’s-its-name—”
“The scabbard, perhaps,” said Edith.
“Exactly—a little too fast, it is because it is bright and glowing, you know, my dearest love.”
Mrs Skewton heaved a gentle sigh, supposed to cast a shadow on the surface of that dagger of lath, whereof her susceptible bosom was the sheath: and leaning her head on one side, in the Cleopatra manner, looked with pensive affection on her darling child.